


Like a Smoking Gun

by dancinbutterfly



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Honeypot, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Warnings in the notes, but not for a little while, eventually explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Interestingly, torture is the kind of thing that stays with you. Napoleon hadn't been expecting that. </i><br/> <br/>or</p><p>The one where Napoleon is the honeypot for a "known homosexual" arms dealer and realizes he's in love with his partner while he deals with the aftermath of being tortured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Smoking Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Warning this fic will contain for 1)post torture trauma including panic attacks and flashbacks 2)use of alcohol as self-medication 3) use of sex to further a mission aka a honeypot wherein Solo does the coercing 4)period typical homophobia and sexism.

Funnily enough, prior to that little escapade with the Vinciguerras, Napoleon had never actually been tortured before. Drugged, yes. Captured, of course. Interrogated, absolutely. Torture, though, was new. 

Interestingly, torture is the kind of thing that stays with you. Napoleon hadn't been expecting that. 

He'd felt fine after. All right not fine. He was fairly far from fine when Ilya pulled him out of that chair but he had walked it off. It wasn't like dear old Uncle Rudy actually got to the pliers portion of the evenings events, after all. He still had all his fingernails, every limb, both eyes, the entirety of his ears. He'd pulled operatives out of worse conditions in far less intact states. 

So he'd honestly thought he was fine. It's not until after they get back from Istanbul that he realizes no, actually, he really isn't. 

It starts with the smell of smoke. He's cooking in his apartment in Manhattan, he leaves a lovely fish filet too long on the pan, the whole mess starts burning and suddenly he can't breathe. 

He can't breathe, goddamnit. He can't breathe and his hands are shaking and his eyes are watering. He barely manages to get the pan off the burner before the whole apartment catches fire but he sinks to the floor as soon as its done, head between his knees. He is grateful that whatever bugs he hasn't found yet are audio, not video because no one should see him like this. 

He can't eat his dinner. Instead, he drinks an entire bottle of whiskey that costs more than the CIA pays in a month before he can get the sound of his heart pounding in his ears to stop. He ends up locking himself in the bathroom and passing out in the tub because what he does certainly cannot be called sleeping. 

He's fine the next day, if his eyelashes are stuck together with dried tears at first. He cleans up the mess he left in the kitchen and pretends the whole thing was a fluke. Once he throws out the empty bottle, it's as if it never happened. He's dandy, thanks.

The rest of his week is normal. He meets with his contacts at Christie's about the latest auction results, calls his mother, and generally enjoys his off time until U.N.C.L.E. calls him in for a mission in Ethiopia. He's always wanted to go to Adis Ababa in the spring time so he's happy to go. 

They meet at a cafe in the heart of the city. Gaby gives him a tight hug when she sees him and tells about her new flat in London. Apparently she loves the rain, doesn't mind the terrible food, and is considering getting a cat for "appearances sake" as her neighbor is a woman with a habit of feeding the neighborhood strays anyway. 

Ilya is far less forthcoming when he slides into the third seat at their little round table. He grunts at Napoleon and kisses Gaby's hand when she holds it out to him but is mostly silent. He sips his coffee and watches the room and jerks his chin once when Waverly arrives, spotting him a whole two seconds before Napoleon does.

"Children," Waverly says, taking the fourth and final seat with a smile. "Are we behaving?"

"I'm always on my best behavior," Napoleon says and Ilya snorts. Then he makes a little noise as apparently, Gaby kicks him under the table. 

"Yes, I'm sure. Now about our latest trip."

It turns out that an opportunistic ex-patriate Irishman by the name of William O'Riley who was once should be content as a filthy rich drug-trafficker but has now decided to get in on the arms race. 

Apparently all that drug-trafficking has earned him many friends in very high places who are more than happy to facilitate any shipping or travel arrangements that he should require, both east and west of the Iron Curtain which seems to surprise Gaby and Ilya but doesn't make Napoleon blink. He knows better than most how much the rich love their mind-altering substances. 

"He apparently took Ireland's neutrality a bit too literally during the war," Waverly tells them. "Made friends with everyone and anyone he could but but particularly down here on the African front although he's been reported in Afghanistan quite a bit over the last decade," to which Ilya mumbles something about Afghanistan being soveirgn Soviet territory in Russian. 

"That would be why your government wants you involved, Peril," Napoleon points out but Waverly is shaking his head.

"Would that it were that simple. I'm afraid Mr. O'Riley just isn't that fond of nuclear weapons, doesn't like the collateral damage," which Napoleon thinks is reasonable for any human being with aspirations of continuing to live on this planet. A radioactive wasteland doesn't sound like fun for anyone if you ask him. "No our target is a fan of gas."

"Like mustard gas?" Gaby asks.

"A bit more advanced, and by a bit I mean drastically. An independant researcher in Argentina found a compound we're currently calling Compound D which is odorless, colorless, kills in under ninety-seconds and can be aerosolized for easy dispersal over long ranges."

A muscle in Ilya's jaw ticks. The man should never play poker, Napoleon thinks. It's like he's made of tells. "How long?" Ilya asks.

Wavery takes a sip of his coffee. The cup clicks a little too much against the saucer when he sets it down. He's nervous about this one. 

"One detonation of the aerosol form in your standard small explosive can effect a ten kilometer radius for over an hour, more depending on weather conditions. Needless to say, it would only take one attack in a major city to kill thousands. O'Riley's working towards mass production for sale to anyone who can afford it. For obvious reasons, none of our governments want that to happen." He flashes the table a cheeky grin. "After all, mass casualties should only ever have a government sanction."

The linchpin of the plan revolves around the fact that O'Riley is a known homosexual. This means that aside from playing an opium enthusiast and potential weapons buyer, Napoleon is tasked with seducing him, the unfaithful husband to Gaby the diminutive wife. Seducing O'Riley gets them into his base, earns his trust, gets his information. Ilya is recon and external support.

Ilya doesn't shout because they are in a public place but less than five minutes of threatening to call his superiors later, he storms out the meeting with Gaby trailing him looking concerned and amused in turns. Although about which particular part of the plan Ilya was so upset, Napoleon isn't quite sure. Ilya didn't say. He just kept growling about how this "would not stand" and he "would not allow this" as if he had any say whatsoever in the matter. Napoleon assumes he just doesn't want to be left out after being center stage in both Italy and Turkey, the drama queen.

Waverly apologizes as soon has the other two are gone, clasping him on the shoulder but not about Ilya. There's no apology for Ilya, really and Napoleon doesn't think he'd want it if there were. He's starting to like the big lug the way is. 

"Terribly sorry about the honeypot, Solo, but you understand why I assigned you the task. I mean, can you imagine Kuryakin being seductive?" He laughs and shakes his head.

"No," he admits because he can't. Not even the interrupted moments he's caught Ilya in with Gaby were seductive. They just sort of…were and after Istanbul they stopped altogether.

"I think he might actually rupture something if he tried and then we'd be down a damn good asset." Waverly lifts a brow. "However, I'm forced to ask if we going to have any problems?"

"I know how to do what I need to get the job done, if that's what you're asking," he replies evenly. 

He doesn't know how much Waverly knows about his time in the Army. He doesn't know if he has any idea about the conduct unbecoming an officer he got up to that has nothing to do with theft and everything to do with the feeling of beard stubble and broad calloused hands. If Waverly does know, he's not saying which is fine with Napoleon. They both have jobs to do and they are both men of the world who know discretion is the better part of valor.

"Good man," Waverly says then he's gone, leaving Napoleon alone in the cafe with his thoughts. 

He stares down at his lukewarm coffee and for some reason, he doesn't think about Waverly, or Gaby, or Ilya, or O'Riley and his gas and his known homosexuality. He's thinking about how a week ago, he couldn't get off the floor of his kitchen, how he hid, drunk, in his bathtub, and how it's entirely possible that he cried a little and made himself forget it at the time. He thinks about leather straps and spasming muscles and the smell of smoke. The smell of fucking smoke.

It takes more time than it should to realize that someone is burning a coal in a hookah nearby. He forces himself to push away from the table and see himself out. 

He is better than this. More importantly, he has a mission to complete.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay lots of notes!  
> 1)I was so shocked they actually went through with torturing Napoleon Solo I could barely handle with it. I immediately needed fic DEALING with him being tortured. You brought this on yourself, Mr. Ritchie, and have no one to blame but yourself.  
> 2)Compound D is made up, completely. I needed the bad guy to have something bad that wasn't nuclear.  
> 3)I love Ireland! Ireland is great and so are the Irish. I mean no offense to the Irish. However, I needed a baddie from somewhere that wasn't Allied or Axis in WWII and then I remembered the mountain climbing episode of Archer and was like OH RIGHT IRELAND WAS NEUTRAL and boom, O'Riley happened!  
> 


End file.
